It’s a biting twenty degrees on Friday night on Atlantic Avenue off Henry Steet. I’m heading nowhere in particular, i.e., I’ve nowhere to go. From between two cars emerges a short and stout man, stuffed in a green military jacket, who looks like the Iron Sheik wearing Nikola Volkoff’s fur hat. He’s waving me down.

– How do you feel about taxis? You can probably find a taxi at the gas station since we’re right off the highway. Or the attendant can call a car service for you.

Squinting, the man’s eyes follow my finger and his head turns and snaps back immediately, bringing a grimace with it.

– No gas station. I need car service.
– I’m sorry, I can’t help you.
– You know? Car service. You a Chinese, right?
– Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I know where the car service is.
– No, no. You are Chinese. The Chinese are so polite. Do you know? How are you so polite?
– I don’t know.

I start to walk away and he takes that as an invitation to take a stroll with me.

– How are things in China? How are the people?
– Not good. That’s why they’re here.
– Ack, these Americans. You are polite. You show me the respect. I give you the respect.

He stops short and points at my chest.

– Look at you. Look…your tie. You are so polite. Be careful with the tie.

And then he whispers:

– Which way is the Fourth Avenue?

I point east.

– Just keeping going down Atlantic Avenue and you’ll get to Fourth Avenue. It’s after some streets with proper names, and then it’s Third Avenue and then Fourth.
– I don’t need your knowledge. I need to get to the Fourth Avenue. Ah, I was walking the wrong way. Where is the Atlantic Avenue?
– We’re on Atlantic Avenue.
– You are so polite. Come, come. Atlantic Avenue is so great. I can get a drink here and here and there…

He walks ahead of me and then stands frozen in front of a bar. I break the silence with a reckless question.

– Do you want go?
– No. No, no.

Shaking his head, he continues walking, and I follow.

– I wish my son was like you. You give the respect. My mother…she just died…my mother.
– I’m sorry.
– No sorry. I am a bad man. It is okay. No sorry. It was her time. My mother…she was from Arabia. You know? Middle East. She was not herself anymore.

This is followed by an unintelligible drunken slur which ends when he stops in front of a Middle Eastern restaurant with greetings in Arabic, I presume, on the front door.

– Ah! My language!

He proceeds to recite it to me in his mother’s tongue, wistfully. I don’t ask him what it means.

– You should go in. They’ll call a car service for you.
– No…no, they would not like me.

He stomps away. I match his pace.

– I am alone. You know? This time of year is tough. Look at all these people. With the families. Holidays. Happy. Happiness.